


Small Things

by ViciousVentriloquist



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Anxious Katsuki Yuuri, Asexuality & Demisexuality Spectrum, M/M, Masturbation, Mildly Dubious Consent, Panic Attacks, References to Depression, Self-Esteem Issues, Sexual Content, Unreliable Narrator, intimacy issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-24
Updated: 2018-05-21
Packaged: 2019-05-09 16:54:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14719970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ViciousVentriloquist/pseuds/ViciousVentriloquist
Summary: “You must be sick, love.”It’s not disgust, oh no, he could never be disgusted by Victor, he loves him more than anything—it’s something that’s wrong with Yuuri.He can’t touch him.After moving in with Victor, Yuuri struggles to come to terms with what’s expected of him in his first real relationship.





	Small Things

Some people say that there's comfort to be found in intimacy. Yuuri doesn't understand why.

Then again, he can't quite bring himself to be surprised; Subjecting oneself to frequent bouts of mental self-flagellation isn't exactly conducive to well-adjusted behavior, among other things. But for one reason or another, Yuuri never got the memo—not until Victor showed up, all pomp and circumstance, as if fate itself couldn't figure out what to do with him. In light of his spectacular failure at Sochi, the sudden shift had all but given him whiplash. The next few months were, as far as he can recall, a cacophony of unexpected developments and turnarounds, none the least of which was his relationship to Victor.

Victor. He’d been thrilled when Victor asked him to move to St. Petersburg, and he still is—but with that thrill comes the realization that he has to be _better_. If he wants to take up Victor’s time by being both his fiancé and his student on top of his competitor, there’s no room for excuses, no room for mistakes. He wants to be deserving of the place he’s been given.

To that end, he's allowed himself to overlook a particularly important aspect of his newfound engagement—namely, the fact that this is, despite his age, Yuuri's first actual relationship. And poor, poor Yuuri, as oblivious as he is, only stops to consider this once he's already boarded the plane, carry-on luggage packed safely overhead and the rest of his things scheduled to ship later.

So now he's moving to St. Petersburg with Victor, his fiancé and first boyfriend, with little to no notion of what's expected of him. That sounds achingly familiar, but he tries not to dwell on it. He can make this work. If it's Victor, he’s willing to do anything.

Well, almost anything.

* * *

 

Despite his expectations, moving into Victor’s apartment is fairly uneventful. His boundless enthusiasm laughs in the face of jetlag, a feat which Yuuri finds impressive given that he himself is about five seconds away from face planting in the airport the second they get their luggage.

“I can’t wait to show you the apartment! And Makkachin will be so happy to be home after all this time,” Victor says as soon as they get outside. Yuuri shivers in response, having not thought to double up on layers and Victor having apparently forgotten to mention it. He doesn’t have the energy or willpower to be annoyed. At this point he’s used to the fact that this is just how Victor is, and he finds it more endearing than anything else.

Besides, it’s not as though Yuuri doesn’t understand; Victor had made it very clear that he was ecstatic about bringing him back to Russia. He’d been talking about it nonstop for weeks prior, at the expense of everything else. Yuuri imagines the feeling is similar to how he had felt when Victor first came to Hasetsu—filled with a single-minded desire to impress. Though he’ll miss the onsen for as long as he’s away, he has to admit the prospect of living in Victor’s homeland and getting to practice at the rink he grew up at excites him.

He lies in bed that night with his brain still running at full throttle despite the physical exhaustion that’s seeped into his bones from hours of travel. Everything is so foreign, from the city streets to the faces of the crowd and even the layout of Victor’s apartment. All of it rattles him. The butterflies eventually settle into a low hum in the pit of his stomach, but Yuuri focuses on taking deep breaths and tries to keep himself from splitting open. Somehow he manages. It helps when he thinks of himself as a house whose foundation is a bit shaky after being put through the wringer. He doesn’t necessarily trust it not to collapse, even under the force of a light breeze, but that’s neither here nor there.

“Yuuri!” He can’t hold back a tentative smile when Victor uses that singsong voice, or restrain full-blown laughter when he catapults himself onto the bed and sends Yuuri’s body sailing almost a full foot into the air.

“What are you doing?” he asks, chuckling as Victor tackles him back onto the mattress and buries his face in his neck. Then there’s warm breath against his throat, and he shivers. “Victor?”

“You smell good.”

There’s a lump in his throat. He tries unsuccessfully to swallow it. “Well, I did just take a shower, but thanks.”

He freezes when Victor suddenly pulls back, staring down at him in _that way_ of his that makes his heart stutter. Honestly, he’d be nervous if anyone stared at him like that, but with Victor it’s amplified tenfold. “Yuuri?”

“…Yeah?”

“Can I kiss you?”

“…Yeah.”

It’s different than the other times. Yuuri felt uneasy the first time they kissed in private, after they’d managed to make a public spectacle of themselves (though that had been mostly—entirely—Victor’s fault), but he had chalked it up to nervous tension. Ever since then the only encounters he considers distinctly ‘romantic’ in the physical sense had been chaste.

Yuuri had thought that at this point in their relationship he’d be used to it, but he’s still tense. Maybe it’s because they have their own place now. There’s no need to continue tiptoeing around the issue. There are no other people in the apartment or right next door who would intrude on their privacy.

He’s always been anxious, but right now a small part of him becomes abruptly terrified.

Victor doesn’t seem to notice; he’s caressing his face with one hand and winding the other through his hair, tangling it around his fingers. The same legs he loves to watch dance across the ice are caging his hips, and the knees that bend them are squeezing his sides, chasing his breath into his throat—as if Victor is entertaining the thought that he’d try to escape. Yuuri can’t fathom how he would, since he’s gone still and quiet and his body doesn’t seem keen on obeying him.

A few seconds pass before Victor pulls away and stares down at him with pursed lips, looking pensive. Yuuri stares right back.

Victor brushes a lock of dark hair out of his eyes. “Yuuri, have you slept with anyone before?”

The question is a well-placed punch to the gut. He tries to pass off his sudden choking fit as a cough. Failing that, he avoids eye contact as if one look will turn him to stone—but Victor is no Medusa, though it takes him an embarrassingly long time to remember it.

“You might not remember, but you never told me anything about your exes when I asked about it before.”

“I remember,” he squeaks. Of course he remembers. It had been one of the first conversations he’d ever had with Victor, and it had served as a prominent source of nightmare fuel for days afterwards.

“Oh, you do? Fantastic! You know, I was really curious, but since we’ve been together I wondered if the reason wasn’t just because you were private.”

So he’d read him like a book, then. Well, Victor can’t exactly be faulted for being selectively observant when it comes to his sex life (or lack thereof), though it does seem a peculiar skill set to have. “I…I just…never got around to it, I guess.” There’s a whole hidden layer of subtext there given he's well in to his twenties, but that’s a can of worms he has no desire to open. “Uh, sorry, if that bothers you, I mean. I’m not saying you care about things like that, I know you don’t, but it probably seems weird, doesn’t it?” _Stop sticking your foot in your mouth. Reel it back in._

“Yuuri, that’s so _cute_!” He nearly has the life choked out of him when Victor sweeps him into a too-tight embrace. His breath stalls in his chest when the older man starts cooing into his hair. “Were you waiting for someone special? Like for marriage? Well, I don’t know about waiting _that_ long, since we haven’t started planning yet, but I’ll at least wait until you feel like you’re ready—seriously, you’re adorable!”

“I…what?”

“Or am I wrong?” Victor stares at him quizzically. He looks so deathly serious that Yuuri can’t help the bubble of laughter in his throat.

The humor quickly vanishes. “W-Well, you’re not _wrong_ , I guess.”

“There’s a ‘but’ hidden in there somewhere.”

“Yeah, there is.” There’s a pregnant pause. Yuuri uses it to take a deep breath. “Victor, I think I’ve got to tell you something.” He looks over at the alarm clock on the nightstand: it’s only a minute to twelve, but they had been traveling all day, hadn't they?

_You're tired. You're probably not thinking straight._

He tells himself that those are lies. “It slipped my mind for a while, but sooner or later you’re bound to notice, so I owe you an explanation before that happens.” He looks back at Victor and instantly regrets it. He’s never done well being the subject of peoples’ undivided attention, so he’s actually impressed with himself for getting this far. 

But then he tries to open his mouth again, and this time words won't come out. This isn’t working. His throat is closing, and Victor is still staring at him like he’s expecting some grand revelation. In reality that couldn’t be further from the truth. The truth is much more disappointing.

Maybe he could just give up. Backtracking and asking Victor to forget what he said is still an option. Yes, it would probably be awkward for a few days, but he at least has some degree of faith in his ability to weasel his way out of any conversation that’s even remotely emotionally taxing. It’s worked for him so far. But then—

“You don’t have to tell me, darling,” Victor says, and the words die in his throat. He removes himself from Yuuri’s lap and lies beside him instead, propping himself up on an elbow but keeping the other arm draped across his chest. “If you don't want to say it, I don't need to hear it.” It feels like he’s been slapped. His whole body tightens up, and his face burns when Victor rolls over and starts murmuring apologies into his neck. “That sounded mean,” he admits with a nervous laugh. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

He tells his body to relax, and miraculously, it works. “I know you didn’t.” He tentatively brings his hand up to clutch Victor’s. “Sorry I’m such a handful.”

“You’re not a handful! Well, not in a bad way.” Victor squeezes him tighter. “I just meant…” He pauses. “I know I’ve said some things I shouldn’t have, but I was an idiot. I’m still kind of an idiot, I suppose.” There’s a poignant frown on his lips and Yuuri wants to wipe it off. “But you still put up with me, so the last thing you should worry about is driving _me_ away! It only took _how long_ just to get you to realize I was flirting with you? Wait, don’t answer that.” He leans over to kiss him, and flashes the same grin that always gives him heart palpitations. “The point is you don't have to tell me anything you're not ready for. I can handle anything you throw at me.”

If only Victor could know just how unintentionally cruel he's being. His smile is so infectious that Yuuri suddenly doesn’t have the heart to tell him the truth. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be brave enough for that. He smiles and nods instead, like the liar he is, but that’s fine. There’s no point in correcting it now, not when Victor looks so happy and so determined to do right by him. Even if he doesn’t understand why, he’ll try his best to chase away the creeping thread winding itself around his heart. He tells himself that Victor won't judge him, or hurt him, or perform any of the innumerable atrocities Yuuri's own mind subjects him to on a bad day.

“I know you can,” he says quietly, just to pull the thread a bit tighter. But then Victor laughs and pulls him closer, and for a split second Yuuri allows himself to believe that he’s made the right decision. "Thank you."

It doesn’t last very long.

Without a doubt, Victor Nikiforov is a ridiculous man, one with a heart of gold, but he’s also got a head that’s screwed on so backwards Yuuri is frankly amazed that he doesn’t get lost in his own apartment. He must, if he thinks he's worth the effort.

He can’t think of any other explanation.

* * *

 

They have a few days of downtime before getting right back into training, and they spend it mostly cycling between a few activities: Phase one, as Yuuri calls it, involves a lukewarm attempt at unpacking all of his stuff, on top of whatever Victor had brought with him when he first came to Hasetsu. Phase two, procrastination, generally strikes when this proves either too cumbersome or they get hungry. Phase three then consists of Victor excitedly cajoling Yuuri outside with the promise of showing him some exquisite St. Petersburg landmarks, and of course he just can’t say no, not when Victor’s eyes are sparkling like the city skyline.

And repeat.

Before he knows it their short vacation is practically over, a fact that sinks in when he overhears Victor talking to Yurio on the phone while he sorts through a box of Tupperware. He’d recognize that grumpy voice on the other end of the line from a mile away, not that he needs to given the very particular way Victor coos into the phone. Yuuri has taken to calling it his Yurio-voice.

Victor is wearing a beaming smile when he hangs up. “Good news! Yurio is excited about us coming back tomorrow.”

“Sure sounded like it. I could hear him yelling from over here.”

“That’s just how he shows his love! Trust me, he’s _very_ happy to see you again. I think he likes you more than me.”

Is that true? It’s hard to tell with Yurio. He doesn’t doubt that the Russian Punk likes him for some reason, but he’d been under the impression that the affection was uneven despite being mutual. At the very least he hadn’t expected Yurio to like him more than Victor, though he supposes Victor is exactly the kind of person the teenager would find insufferable if he weren’t a living legend. (Actually, now that he thinks about it, he’s fairly certain Yurio finds Victor insufferable anyway.)

“I’m sure that’s not true,” he says instead. “He’s known and looked up to you practically his whole life, hasn’t he? I can’t compare to that.”

“What are you saying? You blew him away every time you competed against each other!”

“Well, he’s the one who won the gold medal at the Grand Prix, isn’t he? And he deserved it, too. I just think you’re looking at me through rose-colored lenses again.”

“That’s true, but only because they help me see better.” It feels unnecessarily cruel to tell Victor that saying so contradicts the entire point of the idiom, so Yuuri keeps his mouth shut.

He drops the lids he’s holding back into the box when Victor, who had appeared behind him silently, wraps his arms around his middle. “ _Yuuri_ ,” he whines into his ear, using his shoulder as a pillow, “I don’t want to go.”

“Are you…pouting?”

“Yes.”

“Because you don’t want to go back to practice? Next season is coming up fast, you know, and just in case you don’t remember you already took the last one off to coach me.”

“I know, I know. It’s not that I don’t _want_ to practice. I’d be more motivated than ever now that you’re here, but this is the first time to ourselves we’ve had in a while. Besides, we’ve barely had enough time to break in the apartment! This place has been a bachelor’s haven for so long; it could stand to use some remodeling, don’t you think? And I’ve already been working on some new programs in my spare time, so we can afford another day or two off! I can call Yakov and—”

“He’d kill you.”

“Only if he can catch me. He’s not as spry as he used to be. Probably.”

Yuuri isn’t interested in testing that hypothesis. Truthfully he's more confused by Victor's behavior than terrified of Yakov's ire, though the latter definitely isn't something he'd dare scoff at. “Weren't you excited for us to start practicing at the same rink?”

Victor groans. “Reminding me of my responsibilities? You know just what to say to render me helpless. Is it so bad being alone with me?”

 _That_ he can scoff at. “But practice is important, isn’t it, _Coach_?” he asks teasingly.

Victor clicks his tongue. “Fine, then. Have it your way.” He pulls him closer, his nose pressed intimately to Yuuri’s scalp. “But I get to have you to myself for a while more, at least. Is that okay?”

He can’t argue with that.

They settle down on the sofa to watch TV after getting takeout, the unpacked Tupperware lying forgotten and abandoned on the living room floor. Yuuri finds it hard to pay attention to anything happening on screen while Victor is running his fingers through his hair. The occasional scrape of fingernails on his scalp isn’t helping, either, and soon enough he finds himself coerced into laying his head on Victor’s thighs. He stares at the flickering images on the screen, but his mind is elsewhere, thinking of more interesting things. Like about how sweaty his palms are, or how warm Victor’s lap is, or how he should probably do something so that Victor doesn’t think he’s fallen asleep in the middle of their last day off together, but all of his courage seems to have vacated the premises.

 _Don’t you dare ruin this_.

“Victor?” Yuuri turns his head slightly, just enough to catch a glimpse of the underside of the other man’s face.

It’s a bad idea.

Victor is staring at him. Despite his success with the Eros program, Yuuri still can’t claim to be an expert on sex, but this kind of scenario is practically ubiquitous in romance movies, which he _is_ familiar with. So for him to think that Victor is looking at him with poorly disguised sexual interest isn’t a total shot in the dark. Granted, no one's ever looked at him with sexual interest, and there isn’t a gleam in Victor's eyes like some would have you believe, but there is a kink in his lips, so maybe that’s a piece of information he can file away for reference later.

God, he’s such a loser. He's analyzing the situation like it's some kind of mysterious phenomenon. To be fair, it sort of is. This is foreign territory for him. 

“Yuuri,” Victor pauses and takes a deep breath, and Yuuri savors the rise and fall of his chest against his back. “Are you tired?”

He swallows, shakes his head. “Not really, no.”

He lets Victor lead him by the hand into their bedroom.

 _It’s about time you did something normal for once_.

As soon as the door closes behind them Victor is kissing him. He's caught off guard, but tries to return the favor. It's probably not very good given his lack of skill or experience, but Victor doesn’t seem to mind.

It doesn't take very long for Yuuri to realize that Victor is insatiable when he finally gets what he wants. The kissing turns sloppy, their teeth clacking briefly when Victor pulls away to lick a long stripe up the column of his throat. Yuuri bites his tongue, but an unbidden noise slips out. _Embarrassing_. But then Victor cups his face and the touch strikes him as tender, completely at odds with the passion he’d witnessed just moments before. He lets Victor lead him to the bed as well, but it’s more like stumbling; the backs of his knees knock against the side of the bed and send him tumbling backward onto the mattress.

Then Victor is pinning him down, and it feels—how does it feel? His whole body is flushed, and he can hear his own pulse thundering wildly in his ears. Victor is kissing his neck and running his hands along his sides and telling him that he’s beautiful, and Yuuri is clutching his shirt and his hair in the same way a man grapples at the edge of a skyscraper, trying not to fall. It feels good.

Then Victor says his name, and that feels good, too.

He stiffens when he tugs a bit too harshly on Victor’s hair. “Sorry,” he immediately apologizes, “I didn’t mean—” Victor kisses him again before he can finish, but harder this time, messier. Yuuri is startled when his hands, scorching hot, push up his shirt and caress his stomach. He squirms. “That tickles,” he pants, uncertain.

“Does it?” Victor is laughing as he drags Yuuri’s shirt over his head. He obediently allows it and then stares, transfixed, as Victor follows suit, grinning when he notices that Yuuri is gaping at him. “You like what you see?”

“Uh…yeah.” He cringes internally.

Victor must have outrageously low standards for flirty talk, because even Yuuri’s pathetic attempt makes him blush. “You’re amazing, you know.”

“Thanks,” he says, but he can’t quite believe it. “So are you.” He should say something else, something better and more suave instead of just following Victor’s lead. But he’s stupid, so he can’t think of anything.

Luckily Victor turns off his brain by trailing bite marks across his chest and stomach, and Yuuri is determined to keep it that way. He fists his hands in the bed sheets, bites his lip when Victor unbuttons his pants, and tries to only pay attention to what’s happening in the moment when he starts working him with his hand, and—

Oh.

That's different. He slips and falls and plunges headfirst into cold water, his stomach full of ice and his mouth full of lead.

It's overwhelming to have someone else touch him, nothing like his own hand, and what makes it even more intense is the fact that it's Victor, but there's something else about it, too. Victor pumps him harder; Yuuri groans, and it feels good.

But there's also something about it that really, really doesn't.

He breathes hard and clutches Victor’s back with long-nailed fingers. Surely he must be leaving marks, but he hears no protest. Distantly he is aware of Victor grinding against him, and knows he should reciprocate, but he doesn’t move. He’s frozen when Victor leans in to kiss him again, muttering nonsensical Russian into his ear when he pulls away.

“You look so pretty like this,” he whispers, and Yuuri shivers.

His body is undulating, and Victor is still pinning him down, and he’s rubbing against him, and he can feel his erection pressing against his thigh. He feels exposed. Raw. Vulnerable.

“Are you close?” Victor exhales harshly, breath hot and heavy against his neck, and Yuuri clings tighter to that feeling, lets it ground him. “I can tell you are,” he concludes, not waiting for an answer, and for some reason Yuuri feels shamefaced, like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t be.

He hates the tiny sound he makes when he comes. Victor keeps touching him, thrusting against him for a few more seconds until he stiffens and shakes, only he acts much less restrained than Yuuri had. It’s unfair, really, how perfect Victor looks in that moment, when he’s sure he must look like a mess.

But then he realizes it's over, and out of nowhere he feels vaguely ill, and inexplicably embarrassed. He turns over and buries his face in the covers.

 _This isn’t normal_.

“Yuuri?”

He can’t look.

“Yuuri, what’s wrong?” Victor is leaning over him, body heat radiating over his naked back. He curls deeper into the blanket. Victor gently touches his shoulders, as if afraid of hurting him. “Darling, can you please look at me?”

He _can’t_. He can’t look, but he also can’t say no, not when Victor sounds almost heartbroken. He turns over slowly; Victor’s face is close, concerned blue eyes staring intently at him, and he can’t speak. Can’t explain. He’s afraid, and he doesn’t understand why, because he always feels safe when he’s with Victor.

It doesn’t make sense.

“Yuuri, you’re scaring me.”

He shakes his head. “It’s nothing,” he finally chokes out, his voice barely a whisper. “I just felt…tired.” _Idiot_. That sounds lame, even for him. There’s no way Victor’s going to buy a lie that half-baked.

“Really?” the man in question says, not looking terribly convinced. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. It’s just a little…overwhelming.” That’s an understatement, but at least it’s not a lie. He smiles. “I’ll be fine, Victor. Don’t worry.”

Victor still looks troubled, but settles for rubbing soothing circles into Yuuri’s shoulder. “If you say so. Did you enjoy it, at least?”

“I did,” he says, planting an affectionate kiss on Victor’s nose, and somewhere in the back of his mind he acknowledges the fact that sooner or later that half-truth will come back to haunt him. 

* * *

 

Yuuri learns a few pieces of relevant information during his first few days at the rink.

The first is that Mila Babicheva is absolutely terrifying. She’s not rude or mean-spirited, though some of her mannerisms might be construed that way in Japan. Rather, she acts extremely _friendly_ towards him.

She’s standing on the far side of the rink talking to Yakov when they arrive, but even with the other skaters around them she somehow notices when he and Victor walk in. Mere seconds after they’ve gotten there she’s already halfway across the rink, and not long after that Yuuri finds himself assaulted by a shock of fiery red hair and bright blue eyes.

“Katsuki Yuuri,” she proclaims, one hand on her hip as she leans over the rink wall. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet the legend himself.”

“Legend?” he stutters. “Isn’t Victor the legend around here?”

“He’s old news,” she shrugs. “You’ve been the talk of the rink for weeks.”

“Pardon me,” Victor interjects, polite smile fixed on his face, “but I don’t believe I’m considered ‘old news’ quite yet—wait, Mila, did you say _weeks_?”

“Yep. Yuri hasn’t stopped talking about him since the Grand Prix, but it’s become pretty much constant since a few weeks before you guys got here. It’s like he’s got a man crush or something. Now everyone’s looking forward to seeing your student in action!”

Yuuri blanches. “Everyone?”

“Well, it’s just Yakov and Georgi, but—”

“Out of the way, hag!”

Yuuri watches, dumbstruck, as Yurio skates over with practiced grace and comes to a stop directly in front of him. He levels a glare at both he and Victor before acknowledging them with a curt nod. “So,” he grunts, “you guys finally made it. About time.”

“It’s nice to know that you missed us,” Victor says, his arm covertly sneaking around Yuuri’s waist. Suddenly the events of last night are summoned to the forefront of his mind, and a part of him wilts. His chest feels tight, like the string tied around it is being pulled in two directions. Victor pulls him closer, and Yuuri wonders if he’s doing it unconsciously. He focuses on trying to banish the images from his head, but it doesn’t work well. They just keep skipping and replaying, a scratched record on a broken player.

“As if,” Yurio scoffs. “I’m just looking forward to seeing how hard you guys fail after being on break. Especially you,” he says, glare now pointing directly at Yuuri. “You’d better be able to keep up with me.”

“Aw, that’s so cute,” Mila coos at Yuuri. “That means he likes you.”

“Shut up.”

“Anyway, Yuuri, you should probably go get ready.” Victor lightly tugs on his hip. “I should go talk to Yakov, but I’ll show you where the locker room is first.”

“I’ll do it,” Yurio offers, though he doesn’t look thrilled about it. “Yakov said he wanted to talk to you as soon as you got here, so you’d better hurry.”

Sure enough, Yakov Feltsman is still standing on the opposite side of the rink, looking more impatient by the second. Victor’s smile twitches, and so does his hand on Yuuri’s hip. “Ah, thanks, Yurio. I owe you one later!”

“That’s not my fucking name!”

As soon as Victor leaves Yuuri exhales. He shivers; there’s a cold sweat breaking out on the back of his neck. He instantly feels guilty, but slaps on a fake smile when Yurio turns back to him.

“Let’s go, Katsudon,” he says gruffly, pushing past him as he exits the rink. He nods wordlessly, sending Mila a hurried but polite wave as he follows on the teenager’s heels. “You guys are gross,” Yurio mutters once they’re out of earshot. “I thought I was going to throw up. Can’t you keep the public displays of affection to a minimum when you’re at the rink?”

He knows Yurio doesn’t mean for it to sound so callous, but it hits hard for a different reason than he’d probably expect. “Sorry about that,” he says quietly.

“I mean, I _get it_ , you know? I’m not an idiot, and I’m not a child, either. But you _live together_ now. You could be sucking each other off all night, you don’t have to do it at the rink—”

“Yurio!” He’s blushing madly, aghast at the fact that he even has the audacity to say such things in public. It really shouldn’t surprise him at this point. He doubts Yurio would listen even if Yakov tried to censor him, which he probably does.

He can’t see his face from here, but he can imagine the blond rolling his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. I forgot you’re a prude.”

They’re just the ramblings of an edgy Russian teenager, Yuuri tells himself. Yurio’s just a kid who dishes out insults and jibes the same way others breathe air. But he’s more than that, too, Yuuri also knows. He may be rude and crass, even downright harsh at times, but he’s also perceptive when he fancies showing it.

So when they get to the locker room Yuuri tries to shield his face as he walks past Yurio, not keen on letting him see his thin-lipped grimace or, God forbid, his watery eyes, because he hadn’t said anything that Yuuri hasn’t already thought before, it’s just that he’s brought those thoughts to the surface, and the last thing he wants to do given the events of last night is think about them. He should be focused on skating, not his own hang-ups.

“Thanks, Yurio,” he whispers, placing his bag down on one of the benches. He picks a random locker and opens it hastily, seeking to hide his frown between the metal walls. “I’ll be out in a second.”

Only when Yurio walks away does he allow himself to breathe, because he doesn’t quite trust himself not to burst into tears.

When he comes back out, Victor has already taken to the ice. To no one’s surprise, he completely dominates the rink when he skates. Since he’s his coach as well as his idol-cum-competitor, Yuuri knows he should probably be scrutinizing his movements and storing them in memory, but finds himself doing so for less professional reasons. He shakes his head to regain focus and steps onto the ice.

Victor notices immediately, and skates over to him. Yuuri realizes what he’s about to do barely a second before it happens, but it’s already too late.

Victor tries to kiss him.

Yuuri flinches.

Victor is taken aback for a moment, and he’s filled with a sudden unbearable urge to beat his head against the closest sufficiently hard object.

“Sorry,” he says hurriedly, “you just surprised me, that’s all.”

Victor smiles, because of course he would never assume the worst from him, even when it’s painfully obvious. But there’s still an undercurrent of hesitation when he kisses him the second time, as if he’s afraid Yuuri might slip through his fingers.

Yuuri’s afraid of that, too. 

* * *

 

“Yuri said something to you, didn’t he?”

He’s been at it for a few days, and this morning Mila had asked to watch him practice for a few minutes. He hadn’t thought anything of it, aside from wondering why she found him compelling enough to waste time she could have been spending on her own routine, but now he’s wondering if she hadn’t just wanted to get him alone.

“What do you mean?” He places his hands on the rink wall and bends himself into a stretch, partly to avoid eye contact, partly because he’s still sore from yesterday’s practice.

“Well, you came out of the locker room yesterday looking like you were about to cry, and you’ve had a depressed look on your face all morning.”

One of his skates slips, almost imperceptibly. He hurriedly glances across the rink. Victor is gliding on the opposite side, talking to Yurio as he skates, far enough away to be out of hearing range. His heartbeat slows its thundering pace, and he straightens his back. “It’s just Yurio being Yurio.”

Mila laughs. It’s not a mean sound. “I can’t say I don’t understand how you feel. Whatever he said, he didn’t mean it.”

“I know that.” That’s not the problem, that’s never been the problem. The problem is Yuuri. “Did Victor notice?”

“Hm?”

“You said you thought I looked depressed. Did Victor notice?”

Mila purses her lips. “He didn’t say anything to me.”

He nods. “That’s good.” He doesn’t want to be a bother on Victor’s first few days back at practice. He isn't prepared to handle the guilt. “Did you say anything to him?”

“I mentioned you looked upset, but I didn’t say that I thought it was because of Yuri.” She glances away, eyes leveled at the floor. “Sorry, I didn’t realize you were trying to hide it.”

Well, not everything can be perfect, he supposes. He can’t exactly blame Mila for saying something to Victor, because it’s obvious she hadn’t done it just to be nosy. She’s looking at him like she’s concerned, maybe even guilty, when in reality he knows it’s his fault that she’d been in that position to begin with. “Don’t worry about it. He hasn’t said anything to me.”

“Well, Vitya’s always been bad at dealing with other peoples’ emotions,” Mila shrugs. “He loves you a lot, though, so I’m sure he’s beating himself up about it.”

It’s exactly the wrong thing to say, even though he knows it’s supposed to be an attempt at lightening the mood. “Thanks, Mila,” he says.

His gratitude is genuine, even if his smile isn’t.

* * *

 

 Over the first few weeks, he allows himself to fall into a routine.

It’s hard at first. It seems like every morning Yuuri wakes up and can’t quite remember where he is, and he has to take a few minutes to reorient himself to his surroundings. There’s the bedside table that houses his glasses and keys, Makkachin snoring softly at the foot of the bed, Victor lying at this side—occasionally his fiancé will already be awake when he rouses, and on these mornings he’ll brush mussed hair out of Yuuri’s face, press soft kisses against his cheeks and forehead, and flutter his hands across his neck and back to bring him out of his confused state.

He loves it. He doesn’t think he’s ever loved Victor more than in the moments where he’s not quite awake.

He isn’t sure what that says about him.

They always eat breakfast and dinner together, alternating between who does the cooking (or buys the takeout), and while Victor has defaulted to pouring cereal into two bowls for his morning contribution on more than one occasion it amuses Yuuri more than it annoys him. He just shakes his head and sighs dramatically, a low chuckle leaving his throat.

“Really, Vitya? Cereal again?”

“It’s got a lot of iron! You need it, love, you always look so pale.”

“You’re paler than me, you know.”

“That’s different, I’m Russian.”

At the rink they’re all business, or at least Yuuri tries to be—he doesn’t think Victor has any intention of the sort. He touches Yuuri at every opportunity while he’s coaching, straightening his limbs, massaging his legs (that in particular always draws a melodramatic retch out of Yurio’s throat) and winking at him across the rink. It never fails to fluster him, but he’s fairly certain that’s Victor’s objective. In any case, his programs are coming along nicely.

If only the same could be said for his sanity.

They don’t shower together, much to Victor’s chagrin, and Yuuri tells him it’s mostly because Victor prefers to shower in the morning and then again after practice, while he prefers just to shower once at night, and by that point they’d both be too tired to do much besides bathe (and he’s certain that’s not all Victor has in mind). Victor, while petulant, always gives in with a childish scowl, muttering about how pragmatic Yuuri is, as if it’s a crime.

 _Pragmatic_. Right. That’s a word for it, he supposes.

Ever since that night they haven’t done much besides kiss, which is fine by him for now. It remains to be seen how long he can keep it that way without arousing Victor’s suspicion. Even while he’s kissing Victor he can’t stop thinking about it—about how he must look, about the unintentional sounds he makes, and his stomach clenches in disgust.

He can’t get (it) out of his head.

* * *

 

One night Victor climbs into bed behind him and starts kissing the back of his neck. Yuuri is drowsy, but he allows it, fidgeting when Victor slips his arms around him and pulls him closer. This is what he loves to see—Victor when he’s subdued, when they can just lay together. He’s content with this, with lazy kisses and fleeting touches.

“Yuuri,” Victor whines. Yuuri goes still when he grinds on him, his erection pressing up against his tailbone. “Can I touch you?”

Suddenly the entire context has changed, but he bites his lip and nods, because he’ll never say no to Victor. He helps him slide his pants off, then his shirt, and assists Victor in doing the same, but his body is mostly moving on autopilot; he feels like an automaton, watching from on high as Victor rolls him over and presses their bodies together, stealing his breath when he kisses him. And he kisses back, because he does love Victor and he loves kissing him as a means of proving that, but he can’t stop thinking of what’s going to come next.

Victor runs his hands down his chest and rubs ticklish lines against the flesh of Yuuri’s stomach; he spasms, gripping Victor tighter, and the other man groans. He hums and bites his lip when Victor sucks hard on his throat, and barely registers when he whispers something against the skin of his neck.

“What?” he gasps. “Did you say something?”

“I asked if I can give you head,” Victor repeats, clearer this time, “if that’s okay with you.”

Yuuri’s brain freezes, but the rest of him is very, very warm. He wonders how it's possible to be so cold and so hot at the same time. “I—do you want to?”

Victor nods and runs his hands down the length of his torso, fingers digging into his hips. “I do.”

“If—if you want.”

He holds his breath when Victor kisses him sloppily one more time before reaching into his boxers, and grips the pillow beneath his head with both hands when he takes him into his mouth. Yuuri groans, and immediately claps a hand over his mouth to muffle the noise.

And suddenly he feels close to panicking, his heart fluttering madly in his chest, his breath coming in short bursts, puffs of air that just barely manage to fill his lungs. He can’t do this. It’s too embarrassing. How much of himself is he revealing by making himself vulnerable like this? What does Victor see when he looks at him? He doesn’t want to imagine it. But Victor's mouth is around his cock, and he can't help but to moan again, even though he tries not to, and the fact that he can't silence himself makes him feel worse.

He snaps his eyes shut and doesn’t even think about opening them, not when he knows Victor is kneeling between his legs. It feels wrong, somehow—disgusting, even though Victor had said he wanted to do it, and Yuuri is of the firm belief that Victor can make anything look beautiful.

It’s not about Victor. That much becomes clear once his orgasm creeps up on him, and he squeezes his eyelids tighter and throws his head back and bites his hand as hard as he can as it washes over him.

He comes down slowly, still breathing hard when Victor crawls back up to his side and brushes sweaty raven hair away from his forehead.

“You’re so quiet,” he says fondly. “I wish I could’ve heard you.”

The thought makes him feel ill. But he knows what’s expected of him now, and he doesn’t want to disappoint Victor. “I…should I do it to you, too?”

Victor blushing is a pretty sight, nearly enough to make him forget himself. “Well, I’d be okay with a handjob or some dry-humping, but I’ll take anything as long as it’s coming from you!”

He’s fairly certain Victor hadn’t meant for that to come out sounding so dorky, even to Yuuri’s biased ears. He would have laughed, if he weren’t so nervous. So once more, he puts his body on autopilot and pushes Victor onto his back, kneels between his legs, and tries to mimic what he’d done a few moments ago.

The taste is strange—a bit salty, but not bad, and for a second it’s worth it when he hears Victor cursing in Russian, because that must mean he’s doing something right for once. Then he looks up, and the illusion is shattered.

Victor looks gorgeous. He always does, and it’s ultimately this that does him in. The contrast between he and Yuuri, who is kneeling stark naked between his legs and who only looks good in the right lighting, is soul-crushing. Victor is effortlessly easy on the eyes, and unabashed when he looks down at Yuuri for a moment before throwing his head back and moaning loudly. Yuuri wonders how he compares and comes to a simple conclusion: He probably looks horrible.

He looks away.

When Victor finishes Yuuri inadvertently gags, but keeps his cheeks hollow and sucks, swallows, because he has a perverted, twisted need to prove himself. He listens to Victor pant above him, clutching a fistful of his dark hair and twisting it, pulling it, until tears prick at the corners of his eyes.

“Yuuri, that’s enough. God, you’re going to kill me…”

He lets Victor pull him away, hauls his limp body back up the bed, and collapses boneless beside him. Victor rolls over and buries his face in his neck, running his fingers through his hair.

“That was amazing,” Victor whispers breathlessly, now stroking his fingers up and down Yuuri’s spine, tracing each vertebra. “You’re amazing.”

_Are you?_

He’s ashamed of many things, but not the tears.

"Yuuri, what's wrong? Are you...love, are you crying?" Victor sounds devastated, but Yuuri angles his head upwards and smiles through the tears.

"I love you, " he sniffles, "you know that, right?"

"Of course I do," Victor is frowning, and that's not right, he shouldn't be upset, he hasn't done anything wrong. "Is...is that why you're crying? Because you love me?"

He buries his face in Victor's chest. It's easier, he thinks, now that he doesn't have to lie.

"Oh, Yuuri." Victor kisses his forehead, and Yuuri cries harder. "I love you too."

* * *

 

Yuuri is not a prude.

He’s masturbated before. Many times, in fact, ever since he hit puberty, and Victor had been the most prominent star in all of those fantasies. There were others, too, faceless bodies conjured by his imagination, sometimes even mental static, but he had never been entirely sexless.

So he’s understandably confused.

Has something changed since then? Has his sex drive been completely obliterated by his drive to compete? For some reason he doubts it.

He leaves the rink early one afternoon, telling Victor that he doesn’t feel well, but tries to downplay the severity by acting casual. At first, Victor is adamant about coming home with him, but with his continued insistence that Victor keep practicing and a pleading glance aimed in Yakov’s direction he manages to escape. When he gets back to the apartment he only stops briefly to pet Makkachin before locking himself in the bedroom.

He lies down on the bed and tries to channel his younger self—and to his surprise it _works_ , better than he would have anticipated. He imagines Victor touching him the same way he had the first night, climbing onto his lap, pinning him down and caging him in with both arms and legs. He’d probably be shaking already, since he’s never done well performing in front of others, but maybe that’s his problem. He can be as confident as he wants in his imagination, or as submissive, and he has no reason to feel embarrassed about it because, after all, it’s not _real_.

Yuuri keeps that in mind as he spreads his legs and takes himself in hand. He slips the other hand beneath his shirt to play with his nipples, imagines that it’s Victor teasing him. Thinking about it now, he’s definitely more suited for the submissive role, isn’t he? But he could be dominant, too, a stunning vixen that captivates the man he’s seducing. He’s already proven himself in that regard.

Victor seems to think so, or at least the Victor in his head does, because he’s leaning over Yuuri and watching as he gives himself long, firm strokes, thrusting his hips up into his hand but wishing it were something else. He’d see Yuuri working himself into a frenzy at the mere thought of him, biting his lip in anticipation, curling his toes into the mattress, and choking out barely-audible gasps of his name.

_Look at you, touching yourself for me. I don’t even have to touch you for you to come apart. You’re so filthy._

_You’re so beautiful._

And he’d see that he isn’t sexless, that he can be seductive, he can be tempting. That he isn’t afraid. But it isn’t that simple, because when he comes he comes hard, shaking and gasping the first syllable of Victor’s name, and the spell is broken. And it’s over, he’s staring at the blank ceiling, hand still clenched around his cock and new white stains on his sheets and pants, and Yuuri realizes that it’s all for nothing, because he’s still ashamed.

It’s all in his imagination.

* * *

 

“What are you making, love?”

Yuuri briefly goes stiff when Victor wraps his arms around him. Praying that he can’t tell is probably hopeless, but he does it anyway. He’s gotten—is getting—better at hiding it, and he can always chalk it up to surprise if asked. Luckily he isn’t, but he’s still overly conscious of how Victor hesitates before sliding his palms across his belly. The urge to pull away is strong, because today is a bad day. He’d woken up this morning wrapped in Victor’s octopus grip and with an ill feeling in his stomach.

Oh, right—Victor had asked him a question. He glances down at the fish that’s currently simmering on the stove. “Uh…fish.”

Victor chuckles. “I can see _that_. What kind?”

“It’s…” What had he bought at the market, again? It feels like he’s conveniently erased those details from his memory, and it hasn’t even been an hour since he’d gotten back. He tries to grasp them, but comes up short—he remembers the overhead lights, the patterns on the tiles, the smell…

But he doesn’t think Victor would want to hear things like that, so he doesn’t say anything about them. “…I forgot.”

“You sure are forgetful these days, aren’t you? You’re almost as bad as me!” Victor’s laughter is not aimed at him, it’s _not_ , at least not in that way, but the sound still grates on his ears because what he’s saying is true. He _has_ been forgetful lately. Even worse, he’s been distracted during practice, and he’s paranoid that the others are starting to notice.

Yuuri knows he can’t say anything, not now. He can’t find the words to explain.

He’s getting worse, and he doesn’t know how to stop it. 

* * *

 

He knows it intimately, feels the familiar tugging at his core like an old friend—or more accurately it’s something he _doesn’t_ feel. It’s when that undercurrent of blandness, of _blah_ starts to color his days that he remembers:

 _Ah, yes. This is who you really are_.

He’s afraid. But what is he afraid of, disappointing Victor? All roads lead to that outcome anyway. The irony, of course, is that now he’s even more afraid to be honest with him. There’s a synergistic quality to his thoughts when he gets like this, both the numbness and the fear of acknowledging it amplifying each other until he winds up caught between both of them, immobile.

Skating helps at first. It’s reassuring to be able to distract himself with practice, especially when people like Mila and Yurio are there, people who keep him engaged and out of his own head, people who keep him focused.

But inevitably he gets caught up in his head again, spinning himself into a endless loop, and he skates and soars and ponders and wonders when even that will be taken away from him, too. 

* * *

 

It starts with small things, at first. He starts waking up a bit later, a bit slower, to the point where Victor’s comforting presence doesn’t have the same effect it used to. Sometimes he has to say Yuuri’s name a few times to fully wake him, and even then he remains in a groggy, semi-conscious state until he splashes some water on his face in the bathroom.

Next his appetite, which had slowly been declining, suddenly takes a nosedive—not that he’s been eating much anyway because of his diet, but it’s still noticeable. It’s not even his appetite itself that diminishes, not really. He starts getting stomach pains when he eats, as if the string around his heart has gotten entangled with his intestines.

His daily intake now consists of a handful of granola for breakfast, some carrots for during the day, and whatever he and Victor decide to get for dinner. Of course, Victor doesn’t know about this particular change, because Yuuri does his best to hide it. And when Victor is around, he chokes down whatever’s in front of him, even if the thought of doing so makes him feel sick. He may not have an appetite, but he’ll do anything to save face for as long as he can.

As a direct consequence, his stamina begins to suffer for it. His body simply isn’t getting enough calories to sustain the kinds of rigorous exercises he can do at his peak, and which he’s been doing almost every day since he moved here. It’s easy enough to pretend he’s having an off day, or an off week, but that excuse becomes untenable the second Yuuri notices the concerned watchful eyes that follow him around the rink whenever he flubs a jump or takes twice as many breaks as he normally does.

“I haven’t been feeling well lately,” he tells Mila when she asks, because it’s true. “I think it’s because of the weather,” he also tells her, because it’s a lie, but hopefully it’s one that sounds at least somewhat convincing.

But apparently she must have said something to Victor, because that night his fiancé corners him at the dinner table and demands to know what’s wrong.

“Nothing in particular,” Yuuri says, pushing around the food on his plate. It’s some kind of meat and vegetable dish. He tries not to make a face when he takes a bite. “I think I’m coming down with something.”

“Like what?” Victor’s already up and reaching over to press a hand to his forehead, and Yuuri makes a valiant attempt to not flinch. “You don’t feel hot, but…”

“It’s probably nothing, then. Just fatigue,” he shrugs. “I’ll be fine.”

“Yuuri, I’m worried about you.” He looks up from his plate for the first time since they’d started talking, and what he sees nearly makes him sick with guilt. Victor looks profoundly unhappy, with a thin-lipped frown and eyes clouded over with concern. “If there’s something wrong with you—if something happened—you’d tell me, right? I want to know.”

Smiling is physically painful. “Of course I’d tell you, Vitya.” _Liar_. “But I also need you to trust me. Nothing happened to me. I’m the same as I’ve always been.”

There’s a part of him that’s glad he hadn’t only fed Victor outright lies, but it’s easily overwhelmed by guilt from the ones he had. So Yuuri keeps slapping duct tape on the cracks in the foundation, and hopes that it’ll be enough for now.

* * *

 

 

 

It’s not enough.

**Author's Note:**

> So I've been sitting on this story for a while and decided to finally post it. I hope I was able to get across what I wanted.
> 
> In regards to the tags, I don't really like to put explicit labels on people, but I figured I would be remiss if I didn't put them. I by no means speak for everyone in a spectrum/category.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed reading. Please let me know if you spot any mistakes. The second part is mostly finished, but still needs to be edited. It shouldn't take too long, though.


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